


Carpe Noctem

by bananaquit



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: College Fiddauthor, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Slow Burn, Trans Fiddleford H. McGucket, Transphobia, fiddauthor - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-01 16:49:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10925973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bananaquit/pseuds/bananaquit
Summary: Two freshmen from very different lives find themselves sharing a dorm room in a subpar school where neither of them belong. They collide in a flurry of bottled emotions, repressed memories, and impulsive choices, leading both of them down the path to finding themselves (and finding something very strange in each other)."Canon" companion to my roleplay blogs.





	1. Chapter 1

Well, here it was. _Room 618_.

Stanford unlocked the door and turned the rusty, loose knob. It opened with a horrid squeaking noise, just as he’d anticipated. Everything at this shitty school was subpar, he didn’t exactly have high hopes. Ford picked up his boxes and bags, then elbowed the door open and walked inside.

He took a moment to glance over the room – peeling pale yellowish-brown wallpaper covered in lazy orange waves, gross green carpeting, two beds with hundreds of initials and other miscellaneous (mostly obscene) messages scratched onto their frames, a couple of beat-up old end tables, two desks riddled with scratches and dents, two empty wall-mounted shelves that looked like they were about to come toppling down at any moment, and a singular window. Far too small and definitely too smelly.

Great. Just _fan-fucking-tastic_. He _couldn’t wait_ to meet his roommate (by couldn’t wait, of course, he meant he hoped they never showed up). Whoever he was going to have to room with was probably going to be just as shitty as everything else about this stupid school. Heaving a sigh, Ford set his possessions near the bed on the left and sat down, the mattress springs squealing underneath him. He stared down at his Deformity for a moment before lifting his gaze to find a figure standing in the doorway, wearing a smug smirk that he was immediately tempted to wipe off with a well-placed punch. Ford stood and examined him.

The stranger was a rather lanky man about his height. A pair of round spectacles rested atop his rather long nose. He had thin, straw-like hair that was an almost unnatural shade of light brown. A streak of lighter-colored hair ran horizontally around his head just above his ears. He wore a pair of tattered bell-bottoms and scuffed brown shoes. This was topped off with about the ugliest red, black, and white plaid-patterned button-up Ford had ever laid eyes on. Stanford’s gaze wandered down from his giraffe of a neck (he honestly couldn’t even tell where his chin was) to the bulging satchel that hung at his side, which appeared to be _burned_ in several places. The end of some sort of musical instrument (a guitar, maybe?) was sticking up from behind his back. Ford hated him already.

The man set the single cardboard box he was carrying on the desk to the right and then turned to him. “Howdy,” the man greeted in what Ford took as a condescending tone, extending his hand toward him. His voice was high-pitched and accented just enough to grate on Stanford’s nerves. So his new roommate was one of those idiotic hillbillies, too. _Excellent_. Ford scowled, narrowing his eyes and hesitating a bit before placing a tightly balled fist in the other man’s hand. The southerner’s baby blue eyes flicked from his hands to his face with a bewildered expression as the awkward handshake was reciprocated. Ford brushed off his hand on his pants and then quickly tucked both hands behind his back, hoping the fool was too thick to have taken notice of his Deformity. He said nothing. Instead, he turned abruptly away (still making sure to keep his Deformity hidden) and made a big show of going back to unpacking.

The stranger quirked a brow. “I _said_ , howdy.” he repeated in that absolutely wretched voice of his, enunciating “howdy” like he was trying to teach a child to speak.

“ _Hello._ ” Ford snapped back curtly, not even turning to face him.

“ _Somebody’s_ sure got his feathers ruffled.” the redneck muttered, turning and setting his satchel on the desk.

Ford bit back a biting remark and glanced back at the other. The instrument strapped to his back was now in full view – a _banjo_. A goddamn _banjo_. Ford watched him pull a couple of dirty, wrinkled outfits out of the satchel and toss them on the bed. He then shook the bag upside-down over the desk, sending an array of tools, screws, circuitboards, scraps of metal, and spools of wiring clattering out. Finally, he slid the cardboard box all the way under his bed and then stood up, stepping back to watch Ford. Ford, unnerved by the boy’s stare, shoved a book onto the shelf above his bed a bit harder than intended.

“Fuck!” he exclaimed as the shelf gave way and slammed down on top of his head. Ford rubbed the spot where it’d hit him, briefly forgetting to hide his hand. The Annoyance laughed. Ford clenched his teeth and balled his fists tightly against his sides.  

“Here. Lemme fix that for ‘ya.” The Annoyance walked over and knelt on the bed beside him. He examined the board and the mounting mechanism for a few seconds, muttering something to himself about an easy fix. The Annoyance grabbed a screwdriver and matching screw off his desk, then returned and began to work. “Well, I should introduce myself, I reckon.” he spoke, not looking away from the wall. “Name’s Fiddleford McGucket. I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet ‘ya, but you clearly don’t see it that way.” he said, a slight edge of bitterness creeping into his voice.

“Stanford Pines.” Ford replied flatly, folding his arms. He sat cross-legged on the bed and watched The Annoya- _Fiddleford_ work. Fiddleford managed to remount the shelf fairly quickly.

“There. Good as new.” He gave it a wiggle to make sure it was stable and turned to look at Ford with the same smug-ass smile he had when he first saw him. Ford frowned deeply. “You’re welcome, asshole.” Fiddleford said, sliding off the bed. Ford glared at him.

Stanford went back to the task of unpacking, silently brooding. As he was putting up his prized poster of Nikola Tesla, he caught a glimpse of something moving out of the corner of his eye. He looked down to see a _cockroach_ skitter out from under one of the beds and let out a pitiful yelp. Ford frantically dug around in one of his boxes and pulled out a can of pest control spray, then proceeded to heavily douse the entire dorm room with the substance. So the place was infested with cockroaches. _Astounding_. Why wasn’t he surprised? 

“Mostly bug-free dorms, my ass. Wouldn’t be a problem if I was at West Coast Tech.” Ford muttered under his breath. He chucked the can back into the box. Stupid fucking school. Stupid fucking Stan. Stupid fucking idiot he was going to be stuck with indefinitely because of this stupid fucking school because of stupid fucking Stan.

Fiddleford’s coughing turned into laughter as he squashed the roach with his foot, waving a hand in front of his face to try to dispel the spray at the same time. “Wooooow. Tough guy.” He was grinning ear to ear as he spoke.

“I hate you.” said Ford.

Fiddleford’s expression didn’t change. “I know.” 

 

* * *

 

The two finished their unpacking in bitter silence. Ford left immediately afterward (not before making sure to memorize where every single one of his possessions was and shoving his journal and sketchbook where Fiddleford didn’t have a chance of finding them, of course). His aim was to go out and meet his professors (class didn’t officially start until tomorrow, but it was best to get a foot in the door now so that he had a head start), which he certainly did. After checking out a stack of yellowing, dog-eared books from the maybe eight shelves Backupsmore called a library, he had enough information to complete all of next month’s assignments that very night if he so pleased.

Now he was again standing in front of the same mystery-fluid-stained red door he’d found himself before that morning, but feeling even more temperamental than he’d been just hours ago and clutching a leaning tower of books that was bound to topple over at any second. He kicked the door a couple of times, not wanting to set his books down and knowing full well the bum was probably still inside.

“Let me in, Fi-Fiddleford.” Ford spoke. He tried to sound firm, but stumbled over the pest’s tongue-twister of a name. What kind of name was Fiddleford? Who named their kid _Fiddleford_? Seriously, why wo-

His train of thought was abruptly derailed as the door swung open. In hindsight, leaning against the door to counterbalance the weight of the books hadn’t been the wisest choice, seeing as he had lost his balance when the surface moved away and he was probably going to come face-to-face with the floor very soon.

He felt a surprisingly strong grip clamp onto his arms and push him back before he could tumble over completely. A few books flew off the top of the stack and he stumbled a bit before he managed to right himself, but he was saved from a flat-out fall by none other than the scrawny parasite he was going to be sharing this dump with for way too long.

Fiddleford peered around the stack of books and grinned at him. “Easy there, Mr. Bookworm.” he teased, letting go of him and stepping back. Ford swore he was going to go insane if he had to listen to that voice every single day. He set the stack of books on his desk with a growl, then turned back to look over the room. He tallied up each item that belonged to him, ticking off his mental checklist as he made sure each and every thing he owned was accounted for. He wouldn’t put petty thievery past a filthy hick like Fiddle-whatever-the-fuck-he-called-himself. If anything was missing, Tesla help him…

Huh. Nothing was gone. Remarkable.

“What’s with all the books, anyway?”

“None of your business.”

 

* * *

 

The rest of the afternoon was spent trying to ignore the nuisance by burying his face in a book on quantum physics and shamelessly cutting short any attempts at conversation.

“What’re you majorin’ in, Stanford?”

“ _Why does it fucking matter to you?_ ”

“Nevermind, then. Jesus.”

Ford still wasn’t sure why the prick was suddenly so hellbent on being friendly, anyway. Had he not made it abundantly clear that he didn’t want to speak to him? Fiddleford would pose a random inquiry even ten minutes or so on average, much to Ford’s irritation.

“Can I see your schedule? Maybe we have some classes together.”

“ _No_.”

By late evening, he’d just about had it.

“So, where’re you from?” Ford's eye twitched as Fiddleford spoke again. He flipped a page in the book he was pretending to read, considering his options. Perhaps if he actually reciprocated the conversation, he'd finally be pacified?

“New Jersey.” Ford almost growled his response, his teeth gritted together. 

“That explains the attitude, I guess.” Fiddleford turned back to look at him from where he stood near his desk, one hand on his hip.

“Well, where are you from?”

“Tennessee.”

Unable to resist the urge to lash out, Ford gave an overdramatic gasp. “ _Wow_.” His tone dripped with sarcasm. “College must be _so_ different, huh? You don’t even have to ride your tractor to school!”

Fiddleford strolled over to stand beside the bed where Stanford was sitting and reading. “I biked five miles to school every morning, actually." he said matter-of-factly, as if that somehow made him better than him. Ford just nodded and ignored him, acting engrossed in the text before him.

That was when Ford suddenly felt a hand grab a hold of his sweater. He dropped his book as he was lifted and shoved roughly against the headboard. Fiddleford leaned over and put his face so close to Ford’s that he could feel his breath on his face. “Listen here, city boy.” His voice was dead serious and laced with something so remarkably close to menace that Ford actually found himself feeling _scared_ for a moment. “You think you’re some kinda smart-ass, huh? You think you’re hot shit, don’t you? _Don’t you?_ ” He shoved him again.

Ford finally found his voice. He grabbed Fiddleford’s arm and tried to push him off of him. “Let go of me!”

Fiddleford responded by moving his hand from his shirt to his neck, pinning him. “I’ve been tryin’ to be sociable. I’ve been tryin’ to be nice. And you’ve given me nothing but _lip_ in return. Well, guess what, Jersey? I’m gonna kick your entitled ass if you don’t shut your goddamn mouth. Am. I. Making. Myself. Clear?” Ford felt the hand around his throat tighten. Then instinct finally took over and Ford kicked him squarely in the chest.

“Get your hands _off_ of me!” he yelled. Fiddleford reeled back from the blow. Ford stood up, raising his fists defensively in case things escalated. Honestly, with the way his day was going, he wouldn’t even be surprised if he ended up getting into a fistfight with his roommate the first day of college. He watched Fiddleford size him up, already feeling a nervous sweat collect on his temples.

Fiddleford let out a strangled noise of displeasure and brushed his shirt off as if to collect himself before looking Ford straight in the eyes. “Look, Stan…”

“I am _not_ **Stan.**   _Don’t_ call me that.” 

His icy tone seemed to freeze Fiddleford, who went dead silent for a moment before speaking again. “Okay, fine. Stanford… I don’t wanna fight you.” Fiddleford put his hands out in front of him in sort of a “simmer down” gesture, trying to deescalate the situation.

“Then just _leave me alone!_ ” Ford shouted, extending both arms out to the sides in utter exasperation. Wasn’t the solution obvious?

Fiddleford simply stood there and blinked at him for a few moments, seemingly stunned by his reaction. Ford squinted back at him, equally confused. Fiddleford’s blank look twisted into a scowl after a few seconds of silence.

“Happy to oblige.” He hissed. He walked over to his bed and climbed in, clothes and shoes and all, then pulled the covers over himself and abruptly turned off the light. “Good night.” His tone was short and curt.

Ford threw his arms in the air, grumbling something under his breath before flipping it back on. “It’s nine ‘o clock!” he spoke as the suboptimal electrical system buzzed and flickered to life.

“Exactly!” The light was turned off again.

And now it was back on, accompanied by the same static and flickering as before. Ford blinked rapidly to adjust to the change in light levels. His eyes and ears were beginning to become irritated, but he ignored it. “Do you seriously go to bed at _nine ‘o clock!_?” he inquired incredulously.

Off. “Uh, yes. What are you, nocturnal?”

On. “What are you, a child?”

Ford braced himself for a rebuttal, but received none. He looked down at Fiddleford, who gave a sigh and buried the fingers of his left hand in his hair. “Just do me a favor and go to bed?”

“I don’t _owe_ you any favors! You tried to _choke_ me!”

Fiddleford sighed again. “Stanford. Hear me out. I know 'ya clearly got some kinda bone to pick with me, but I think it’s been a long day for both of us, yeah? I don’t know about you, but I’m fucking exhausted... and personally, I don't really wanna fight you anymore.”

Ford considered this for a few moments. Honestly, though he didn't want to admit it, The An- _Fiddleford_ was right. He didn’t have the energy to fight any longer. He turned away and went to find his pajamas. “This is both the first and last time I’m ever going to listen to you. I hope you realize that.”

He heard Fiddleford let out a huff of amusement and turned to see him grab a bundle of clothes from under his bed. Ford grabbed a bag of toiletries and followed him out the door and down the hall to the bathrooms. He brushed his teeth and returned to the dorm room (he probably should’ve showered, but he didn’t _really_ need one tonight, did he?) to change.

Fiddleford came back a few minutes later wearing a ratty old t-shirt and frayed shorts. Both students climbed wordlessly into their respective beds. Somebody turned out the light. A few minutes of quiet and darkness passed before a sudden thought regarding their earlier spat popped into Ford’s head. He snickered aloud. “Were you really just going to turn out the light and sleep in your clothes?”

“It wouldn’t have been as effective if I actually took the time to get ready for bed first.” Fiddleford snapped.

Ford snorted. “Fair enough.”

 

* * *

 

He couldn’t sleep.

12:03.

 _Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry._ The mantra repeated in his head like a broken record, over and over.

12:04.

 _Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry._ It wasn’t so much his body that was the problem, no. It was his mind.

12:05.

 _Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Do. Not. Cry. Don’t you **dare** cry_ , Ford thought. _Don’t do it. Don’t._

12:06.

 _You **can’t**. He’s **right there** , he’ll **hear** you. _He could’ve sworn the minutes were starting to pass slower.

12:07.

 _Just stop thinking about Stan_ , Ford told himself. _Stop thinking about him. I’m sure he’s fine. He’s **fine**._ He glanced over at clock. Why wasn’t it 12:08 yet? It should be 12:08 by now. He silently willed the clock to change, tucking his knees to his chest and letting out a long, slow breath. _Don’t cry. Stan is okay. Even if he’s not, it’s not my problem._

_Of **course** it’s my problem. It’s my fucking fault. I did **nothing**. I just **stood there** and did nothing and now he’s out on the streets and winter’s coming soon and what if his car breaks down and what if he’s dea-_

_No. He’s fine, Stanley’s **fine**. Don’t worry about Stanley. Don’t even **think** about Stanley._

12:07.

_Don’t think about Stanley. Don’t cry. Don’t think about Stanley. Don’t cry._

12:07.

 _Don’t think about Stanley. Clear your mind. Go to sleep, **goddamnit**. _ He closed his eyes and opened them again.

12:07.

The clock _had_ to be broken. He pushed himself into an upright position and felt his breath hitch in his chest. Why wa- _oh_. Fuck. No. No, no, _no_. Those could _not_ be tears running down his cheeks. He was _not_ crying, he _couldn’t_ be. Ford sniffled and rubbed at his eyes furiously.

11:19? Wait, what? But It was just- _he couldn’t read the fucking clock_. Perhaps he just needed his glasses. His vision couldn’t be blurred due to tears, that wasn’t possible. He wasn’t crying. He fumbled on the bedside table, grasping for his glasses. _No, those were **not** tears brimming in his eyes_. His hand finally found them and he slapped them haphazardly onto his face, blinking and blinking and trying to bring the numbers on the display into focus.

He still couldn’t tell the time. His face was hot. His vision was swimming. Everything was darkness and shadows and shapes moving on the wall but it was okay because he _wasn’t_ crying and he _wasn’t_ thinking about Stanley and he _wasn’t_ thinking about how the only thing he’d managed to do on his first day here was make an enemy out of the man who he’d have to be living with and he _certainly_ _wasn’t_ having a breakdown in the middle of his first night here, right in front of his roommate. Oh, _shit_. He wasn’t awake, was he? What if he was awake? Ford took a deep, shaking breath and reminded himself that it didn’t matter because he _wasn’t crying_.

Fiddleford showed no sign of moving, but his back was toward him, so Ford couldn’t tell if he was awake or not. He wondered what Fiddleford would do if he caught him weeping like an infant. Would he tell everybody? Would it matter? They would all think he was a freak anyway, they always did. It wasn’t as if he was going to make _friends_ here. He didn’t want any friends, right? He didn’t need any friends. He didn’t need or depend on anybody, especially Stanley, and he never had. He could make it on his own! Yes, everybody hated him. Yes, people were mean and cruel. The bottom line was that they weren’t worth wasting his energy on. He was fine. He didn’t feel _alone_ or anything of the sort. That was such a pathetic way to feel. Almost as pathetic as crying in the middle of the night, which he was _not_ doing. He wasn’t weak and he wasn’t a coward and he wasn’t scared of people and he wasn’t scared of the future and he wasn’t scared of failure and and nothing was horrible and everything was fine and he _was._ _Not. Crying_.

 _Fuck_. He was crying.

A choked sob escaped him. He covered his mouth with one of his hands, falling backwards onto his pillow. Stanford cringed at the sound of the squeaky mattress springs absorbing the blow, hoping it wasn’t already too late. He clutched the bedsheets with his other hand and took a few shuddering breaths to calm himself. Ford removed his glasses, keeping his eyes shut tight, and set them on the nightstand. In one motion, he flipped himself over and shoved his face into his pillow.

He spent most of the rest of the night suffocating himself and desperately hoping his loss of control was quiet enough to go undetected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> credit to sovvung on tumblr for coming up with that sick roast about the tractor, btw


	2. Chapter 2

Ford didn't sleep that night. He rose early and crept out without waking Fiddleford. He trudged from hellish hall to hellish hall to attend his classes, eyes flicking about as he analyzed everything. Sharp remarks flared up in his mind, but he had nobody to complain to but himself. Emotions constantly shifted through his thoughts and on his face. Anger and disgust directed at the school, the people, and life in general were the most prominent, displayed in his furrowed brow and ever-present frown. Annoyance came secondhand in eye-rolls and quiet sighs and little muscle twitches. He didn’t acknowledge the sadness or fear or tension, but they were all there in the way he kept his hands tucked and balled neatly behind his back or shoved in his pockets. They were there in the fact that he didn’t speak a word unless it was to respond to the professor calling for attendance and interacted with next to nobody, avoiding eye contact and casting his gaze downward whenever anybody looked in his direction.

Ford held himself high despite his exhaustion, checking and rechecking his posture, adjusting his stance and making sure to look like he had his act together. Intimidation wasn’t his aim, not exactly, but he tried to put off an air of standoffishness. He walked through the throngs of students completely alone, separated from whatever world They existed in. That was fine with him. He didn’t want to exist in Their world. He hated Them all for being here and for the things he knew They’d do to him if he ventured into Their world. Their world terrified him, and he’d learned from experience it was best never to go there. So he continued forward, isolated among crowds. He felt inhuman sometimes, but that was okay. He liked feeling human even less.

He pondered how much he hated humans in general (apart from Tesla and Sagan and The Greats, of course, but they were almost superhuman, weren’t they?) as he entered the room where he was to attend chemistry. Ford was suddenly yanked from his introspective daze and abruptly back into the world he’d spent all day separating himself from as his eyes landed on the back of somebody’s head. The individual had light brown hair with a lighter streak running horizontally across it.

Shit.

Why the hell was the hillbilly even  _in_ chemistry? He should be taking the more basic sciences, not the advanced classes. Ford’s head was suddenly swimming. God. Fuck. No. A thousand “what ifs” bombarded his mind as he lowered his head to stare at the floor and quietly made his way to the lab table as far from Fiddleford as possible. He saw him turn and look at him, but pretended he hadn’t. He didn’t want to try to read that expression, didn’t want to try to determine the implications of his being here. He didn’t want to think about what had probably already been said to the boy sitting next to him.

Ford sat down at the empty table in the back corner and hoped against hope that nobody would join him. He folded his hands neatly under the table and fixed his gaze on the chipped, off-white drywall. He heard the sound of the stool next to him scooting across the cheap tile floor and caught movement at the edge of his vision, but it felt so far away.

“Hey. Is it alright if I sit here?”

He didn’t move. The words barley even registered in his mind.

“Okay. Gonna take that as a yes.”

It all felt unreal. His head felt suddenly too full and too empty and too heavy and too light all at once. Then blackness started to cloud his view. Little spots of darkness spread across his vision. He was sure he just had a migraine or a headache or som-

“Are you okay, man?”

Ford lifted his head from where it lay on the table and blinked blankly at the guy next him, a redhead with thick eyebrows and a scraggly beard.

“You kinda blacked out for a second there.”

Stanford opened his mouth, but no words came out. A few seconds passed before he finally forced out a strangled-sounding “Oh”. He felt like he was losing his mind, and if he looked like he felt, he was probably going to end up doing just that. So he straightened his back and sat tall and cleared his throat and spoke with so much forced confidence that he almost fooled himself. “Yes, I’m fine.”

The professor went through her attendance list. When the name “Fiddleford McGucket” was called and a nasal “here” was echoed in reply, the horror of his situation started to sink in. When the name “Stanford Pines” was called and also answered with a “here” and  _everybody (including Fiddleford)_  turned and  _stared_  at him, everything suddenly became real again. He was at  _Backupsmore University_. He was stuck in a class with the redneck who probably already hated his guts. Said hick was currently leaning over and whispering something to the person next to him and he really shouldn’t have been so nasty to him yesterday and now he was dangerously close to being in  _Their_  world because Fiddleford was telling him all about his breakdown and now there was nothing in his mind but constant, screaming static.

No, he wasn’t going to break down right here. Ford wouldn’t let himself lose it. He bit down on his tongue and tightened his hands on his knees, trying to stop his trembling. He told himself that it might not be too late. Fiddleford wasn’t necessarily spreading rumors about him. He wasn’t in Their world yet. He could fix this before it got out of hand, he could prevent everyone from knowing. All he had to do was apologize. He wasn’t going to apologize because he was scared, that was ridiculous. He was going to apologize because it was the right thing to do, right? He was going to do it because he was a good person… right? He would just say sorry when he got back to the dorm later and everything would be fine. Surely.

Ford still wasn’t sure why he’d lashed out in the first place. Fiddleford might be annoying, but he really didn’t seem like a  _bad person_. He  _did_  seem like the kind of person who would do things like tell the secrets of the people who crossed him, though, but no, he wasn’t worried about  _that_. He wasn’t anxious at all, he had no reason to be. Besides, even if Fiddleford told everyone that he was a weak, pathetic freak, it didn’t matter. What happened in  _Their_ world didn’t affect him. Fine, fine. He was  _fine_.

 

* * *

 

As soon as his last class ended, he tore across campus and back toward the dorms as fast as his legs could possibly carry him. He tripped at one point and took a hard fall on the concrete and everybody was looking at him again and his heart was beating so fast and his chest was going to explode and maybe he was crying a little now and he had to get away from here because he couldn't let anyone to see because only children cried over such silly things and men didn’t cry and so now he was sprinting even faster and it was just up the stairs and the dorm room was right down the hall and  _he was here_.

Ford took a deep breath and paused outside the door. He wiped his face and collected himself, then unlocked the door and walked in. There he was, sitting at his desk. His throat tightened as he approached. “Uh, Fiddleford.”

“Yeah?” Oh, damn. He sounded pissed.

“I, um, I wanted to extend a formal apology for my rude behavior yesterday. I don’t know what came over me."

He knew exactly what came over him. Everything did. Stanley, his family, this shitty school, his whole life... but he'd get over it. He was in control of his emotions. He wasn't like Stan. He didn't lash out. He wasn't like Stan. He didn't let his feelings get in the way like Stan or make stupid mistakes like Stan. He wasn't Stan. He was everything Stan was not- smart, intelligent, level-headed, mature, polite. An honors student with good grades who followed the rules, who was going places, who had potential. So close to being outwardly perfect apart from his Deformity, the cookie-cutter picture of a well-adjusted child- except that he wasn't a well-adjusted child and there was a big, ugly mess under that facade that he liked to pretend wasn't there at all. A tumor like his Deformity that he tried to ignore. Except you couldn't "get over" tumors. Because ignoring it wasn't treating it. Ignoring it was a sure way to ensure a slow, painful death. 

Ford pushed his thoughts to the back of his mind. "It wasn’t right of me to take my anger out on you, you were simply trying to be polite. So… my apologies.” he finished awkwardly, wishing he couldn’t feel the sweat dripping down the side of his face.

Fiddleford let out a relieved sigh and stood up with a smile on his face. “Oh, thank the Lord. I was kinda hoping you were just in a mood. Here I was thinkin’ you were some stuck-up jerk. I’m happy to put this all behind us. I’m real sorry on account of my actions as well, I hope you can forgive me.”

“Of course.” The corners of Ford’s mouth twitched upward in the beginnings of a nervous smile.

“How’s about we start over?” Fiddleford extended a hand toward him for a handshake.

Ford hesitated for a second, then returned the gesture. It wasn’t balled into a fist this time. Ford figured an open handshake would help to show that his apology was sincere and he was willing to start fresh. He was conscious of the fact that it would probably alert Fiddleford to his Deformity (if he hadn’t noticed already) and that could possibly be used against him as well, but being made fun of for his Deformity was practically inevitable. 

“Well, in that case, my name is Stanford Pines and it’s a pleasure to meet you.” His voice was shaking a lot more than he wanted it to.

Fiddleford grinned. “Fiddleford McGucket. The pleasure’s all mine.” Then he glanced down at their clasped hands. Sure enough, he noticed. Ford visibly cringed as he began to speak, gritting his teeth and closing his eyes. “So, six fingers, huh? That’s freaky.”

Stanford tucked his hands behind his back and nodded, unable to do anything but agree.  _Freaky_. He’d hit the nail on the head.

Fiddleford frowned at his reaction. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset ‘ya.”   

Suddenly, there was a hand on his shoulder. Ford stiffened and let out an unintentional gasp. Fiddleford jumped back and both of them giggled nervously.

“It’s alright. I’m used to it.” Ford gave a tight, bittersweet smile and walked over to his own desk.

“No, really, I’m-“

“ _Not a problem._ ” Ford said, giving a dismissive hand wave over his shoulder. He spoke in a way that said  _drop it_.

Fiddleford went silent and sat down at his own desk. He stared at Ford for a few seconds before speaking up again. “Well, I’m assuming you got stuff to work on, so I’m just going to-“ He gave an awkward whistle then pointed to his desk before spinning around in his swivel chair so that his back was to Stanford.

Ford pulled out the week’s chemistry assignments and a pencil and busied himself in getting the hell out of Backupsmore.

 

* * *

 

Ford finished the week’s chemistry assignments in under two hours and filed them neatly away. He checked over the schedule he’d made for himself that morning to keep track of assignments and found he’d accomplished all that he needed to in order to keep pace. He sat back with a relieved sigh, folding his arms behind his head.

He glanced back at Fiddleford, subconsciously searching for some kind of positive reaction. He wasn’t sure exactly what he was looking for, he’d never been good at reading people anyway. He didn’t think Fiddleford had even glanced over his shoulder to see what he’d been working on. The lack of interest was both alarming and comforting. Some part of him wanted to impress Fiddleford, though that wasn’t something he’d let himself admit. He always aimed to impress, of course, acceptance was something he’d always wanted from his peers, but he still had _standards_. Fiddleford was probably too stupid to care, anyway. Ford shook his head as if it would clear his conflicting thoughts.

Fiddleford looked up from where he was sitting on his bed, having moved there a while ago. He plucked a string on his banjo and raised a brow. “What’ve you been working on, anyway? It’s the first day of class, you actually got assignments?”

Ford’s satisfaction at his accomplishment quickly turned to dread as he realized he would have to restrain his frustration with the man long enough to carry on a polite conversation. He felt his stomach start to churn as he considered the fact that he would probably have to keep doing so for the remainder of his time in this hellhole. The apology hadn’t really changed anything, at least in his mind. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel bad (he definitely did feel bad), it was that he was too angry at everything right now to actually be any less annoyed by his new roommate. His father that taught him that apologies were things only given out of courtesy and convenience, after all. Men didn’t apologize, and if they did, the apologies didn’t _mean_ anything. Apologies only served to clean up the mess you made, to keep things from falling apart. Apologies were lies muttered through gritted teeth and forgotten about until they were useful again.

 _Friendly_ , he told himself. _Be friendly. He’s probably more charismatic than you, he surely has friends that he’ll turn against you if you mess up. Getting on his bad side won’t make things any better._ It didn’t seem right that Fiddleford would simply forgive him, anyway. He must still hate him. Perhaps he was trying to earn his trust so he could stab him in the back later. Well, that wasn’t going to work.

Ford took a deep breath and spoke. “Well, I got all the assignments ahead of time from my professors.” He waited for a snide remark about him being an overachiever or something along those lines.

“Ah.” Fiddleford nodded and chose not to comment any further on the matter, much to Stanford’s surprise. Fiddleford plucked another string on his banjo and wiggled his fingers absentmindedly. “Are you done there, then?”

“Yes, I am.” Ford had a feeling he knew where this was going, and he didn’t like it.

“You mind if I play?” As expected.

“No, I don’t mind.” _Yes,_ he minded, but he had to be polite.

Stanford listened silently for a few moments before pulling out his sketchbook. He sat facing Fiddleford so that the other couldn’t see what he was drawing, though he didn’t really have a reason for doing so. He didn’t even know what he was going to draw, let alone why he cared so much about what some hick thought of him. Ford sharpened a pencil and took a deep breath, then pressed the tip lightly to the paper. He closed his eyes for a moment and listened to the music, surprised at how oddly pleasant it sounded. It was a simple melody he didn’t recognize. Fiddleford tapped his foot as he played, a small smile on his face. The upbeat tune didn’t do much to soothe Ford’s nerves. Upon realizing he was staring, he glanced down at the paper and let his pencil move. He didn’t have an aim in mind, not really. A box-like shape materialized on the page. He decided to let the drawing turn into whatever it wanted to. Except _that._

Ford frowned and erased the face that had begun to take shape before it could become any more like Stanley’s. No, he wouldn’t let himself think about him. Not now. He looked around the room, searching for something, _anything_ to draw. Nothing came to mind. The room would suffice, he supposed. Ford furrowed his brow. He didn’t want to give this shitty place the honor of being in his sketchbook, but his normally constantly whirring brain was suddenly void of any other ideas. He started with the corner farthest from Fiddleford and carefully sketched and shaded every detail, adding texture to the crumpled, dusty sheets and the dented bed frames. It was sketchy yet precise. He worked quickly, expanding outward from the corner where he started. It didn’t take long until the whole room had been transferred onto the page with the exception of the area around Fiddleford. He’d carefully avoided drawing him, sticking only to fixed objects. He glanced up at the other, who was still happily strumming away on his banjo.

Stanford stared down at the Fiddleford-shaped space on the paper for a few seconds before letting out a sigh and starting the process of adding him to the picture. He was just finishing up his face (and that weird-ass nose) when Fiddleford suddenly stopped playing. Ford’s head snapped up.

“D’ya have a nice family back home, Stanford?” There was a millisecond of unnerving silence. “Got a girl or anything?” Fiddleford didn’t look at him as he asked the question.

Ford let out a lame attempt at a chuckle and stared down at his drawing. A family? Yes…? He didn’t really know anymore. A _nice_ family? No. Those weren’t the kind of things you were supposed to go telling people, though. He’d learned that lesson the hard way. He rubbed his arm where the memory of a bruise was and blinked his eyes clear of phantom tears, burying that memory where it belonged, far from the light. “You could say that,” he said softly, letting a worried half-smile play across his face as he turned his face away. Stanford tugged absentmindedly at the cuff of his ruddy-colored turtleneck. “A girlfriend? No.” He held his hand up and wiggled his fingers for emphasis with a tight smile, then immediately regretted doing so. The hands were shoved back into his lap, where he stared at them and tried not to think about Cathy and the way she’d _screamed_ when he’d touched her hand.

He really wanted to talk. He didn’t know why, but he did. He wanted to let everything come spilling out. Everything about his dad and his brother and those stupid kids who used to tease him and everything he’d pent up inside for years now. It would be so easy. Nobody was stopping him anymore. Pa wasn’t here to tell him to shut his mouth anymore. He could do whatever he wanted here, say whatever he wanted here. This was a new place with new people who knew nothing about him.

A new place with new people who likely already hated him. Maybe if he stayed quiet, he wouldn’t have to deal with any more of it. If he stuck to the shadows, if he stayed anonymous, if he didn’t try to talk to people, maybe they wouldn’t even notice him. Then nobody would point out his fingers and his flaws and everything he already hated about himself.

He couldn’t talk. Especially not to Fiddleford, who he couldn’t trust, who hated him already, who would probably spill everything he said to everyone he knew if he dared to elaborate. So Stanford held his tongue. “What about you?” He diverted the question away from himself and smiled nervously before Fiddleford could press any further.

“My folks are nice. Had a girl, but she moved away ‘nd I lost contact with her a while back.” Fiddleford nodded solemnly.

Ford felt no empathy. “That’s unfortunate.”

“Yeah. She was real sweet, too. Best person I’ve ever known.” Fiddleford smiled fondly as he appeared to reminisce.

Ford didn’t reply. He didn’t really care, he was unsure what to say, and he was happy to let the conversation die.

“You ain’t really the talkin’ type, are ya?” Fiddleford smirked and said, then suddenly fixed his blue eyes on Ford’s. Ford skillfully avoided eye contact and stared at his drawing instead. When Fiddleford stood up, he slammed his sketchbook shut and tightened his grip on it. “Kinda shy, too. That’s alright. Wouldn’t want a roomie who’s bringing people ‘round in the middle of the night or tryin’ to throw a party in here or somethin’. Don’t think I have to worry about that with you.” Fiddleford grinned and winked, then walked past him. Ford buried his irritation and swiveled to watch him cross the room, the chair squealing as he turned. The discussion was over now, right?

Nope. Looked like he wasn’t getting a break. Fiddleford stopped beside one of Ford’s book towers and turned back to him. “Have I got permission to ask what the use of all these books is now?” Fiddleford inquired. He gestured as he spoke and accidentally whacked the stack, which sent it toppling over. Fiddleford’s eyes widened and he frantically attempted to catch the books as they fell. Ford couldn’t help but let out a groan as he watched his alphabetized stack tumble. He stood up with the aim of reassembling his collapsed tower of tomes, but Fiddleford was already rebuilding it (completely out of order, too) at an almost superhuman rate. “I-I… gosh, I-I’m sorry, Stanford.” Fiddleford stuttered, his voice cracking as he stammered.

Ford paused and quite literally bit his tongue to stop himself from making a jab at the other’s clumsiness. Instead, he let out a sigh and did his best to form a civil reply. “It’s okay… just… just let me pick it up.” He leaned down to grab a book only to have it snatched away by his roommate before his hand could make contact with it.

“N-no, I insist.” Said Fiddleford. Ford stared at him. He reminded himself yet again to restrain his anger. His eyes tracked the southerner’s movements for a second before he finally noticed that Fiddleford was shaking slightly. He was a bit surprised how quickly Fiddleford’s composure had evaporated. Ford reached out and took a hold of his arm, grip gentle but firm. Fiddleford stiffened and the two locked eyes.

“Fiddleford. I have a system.” Ford stated. Fiddleford finally took a step back and left him to it. Ford sighed and began the task of restacking the books, murmuring the titles aloud. He told himself it was an unconscious thing, but his enunciation of every long, scientific term was very deliberate. Of course he wasn’t doing it because he wanted Fiddleford to know what kinds of advanced material he was reading. If Fiddleford happened to notice how smart he was as a side effect, that would be great. If he was impressed? Good. If he was intimidated? Even better. It definitely wasn’t something he was thinking about or worrying about because he didn’t care what the dumb farm boy thought of him. He wasn’t that desperate.

“I really am sorry.” Fiddleford’s voice interrupted his listing. Stanford let out another breath, then turned to look at him.

“Don’t trouble yourself by worrying about it.” Ford replied. He studied Fiddleford for a few moments. The “cool guy” façade was gone now, replaced with a face that spoke only of anxiety and a brow knotted tightly in fear. Ford blinked brown eyes at him, feeling something stir in his chest. It wasn’t sympathy, no… pity, maybe? “Really. Just be careful next time.”

He seized the opportunity to grab the topmost book off the shelf and flipped to a random page. He pretended to read, mercifully putting an end to the awkward interaction. He decided it would be a good strategy to keep his head buried in a book whenever Fiddleford was around. Ford didn’t even particularly want to look at him again. He was going to avoid him even when they were in the same room. He sat down on his bed and ignored the squealing of the mattress springs, never letting his gaze leave the page. Any world this book would bring him to had to be better than the one he was stuck in.


End file.
